


When the Fallout Comes

by MaesterChill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Auror Partners, Brief Draco/OC, Coffee Drinking, Fighting baddies, Finger Sucking, Finger obsession, Friends to Lovers, Hand & Finger Kink, Hit Wizard Partners, Kissing, M/M, POV First Person, Partners to Lovers, Pastry-eating, Post-Hogwarts, Prostate Orgasm, Quirofilia, Smoking, forbidden relationship, hand obsession, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22877626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/pseuds/MaesterChill
Summary: Draco Malfoy, hard-as-nails Hit Wizard, has a secret obsession. Welltwoof them. Orten, depending how far that metaphor can stretch. It's hard to puta fingeron exactly when it tipped from the occasionaloff-handobservation into something moregripping, but suffice to say it's now getting a touchout-of-hand.Hands. It's Potter's hands. He's obsessed with Potter's hands.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 78
Kudos: 654
Collections: HP Kinkfest 2020





	When the Fallout Comes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/gifts), [icarusinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight/gifts).



> Written for tackytiger's prompt, Hand and Finger Kink, and gifted to both her and icarusinflight, because NGL, it’s both their faults this fic even exists. Textbook enablers. You could say they forced my hand... 
> 
> Many, many thanks to [timothysboxers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timothysboxers/) and [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/) for expertly looking over this fic. They are hands down the bestest.  
> Timothysboxers, my right hand man and a dab hand at the old puns, had a heavy hand in the summary, and you have to hand it to him, it's a beaut.  
> Put your hands together for the fest mods too for being all-round awesome.
> 
> Title is from the song 'Handsome Hands' by Ingrid Michaelson.

I've been harbouring a little secret for quite some time, longer than I care to remember. And thankfully, not a single man or woman on Merlin’s green Earth suspects it. Nor should they. Well, that’s the nature of a secret, isn’t it?

But now, I regret to say, I'm in somewhat of a quandary.

I’d really rather not say, but I suppose what I _can_ tell you is that, if I can’t manage to keep the thing under wraps, it could get me into quite a spot of bother. 

Oh, _very well,_ it’s Potter's hands. I can't stop thinking about them. Looking at them. It's extremely inconvenient. And whichever way you look at it, and believe me I’ve studied it from all angles, it's become an obsession.

Which would be fine, of course, if we weren’t partners. You see, the distraction of it is bordering on dangerous, and by now my fixation has far exceeded the bounds of normal comradely appreciation. Non-platonic arrangements are simply not an option for Hit Wizard partners; in fact, they’re all-out prohibited. The stakes are just too high. We live or we die together. 

Besides, I’m a Malfoy. We're not the sort to let potentially compromising issues get out of control. 

_However_. 

The quandary I'm having is that it’s reached the point where I’m horribly tempted to make an exception and let the wand sparks fall where they may.

It all started, I suppose, in Hogwarts. At first I tried to brush it off. Well, they're just _hands_ , for Merlin’s sake. That’s what I kept telling myself. Although, if I’m honest, it never worked. If I’m really honest, they made my pulse quicken from the very start. I can still recall how sturdily his hands gripped the broomstick as he chased me down, how they closed neatly around that Remembrall like I hadn’t put all my fucking weight behind the throw. And not forgetting the many fights we managed to get ourselves into, Potter’s hands grappling me to the ground, fingers closing around my neck. Those were the worst, in the best way. I remember still feeling their imprint on my skin days later, and it didn't take a great leap of the imagination to imagine the warm pressure of the handshake I’d been denied. 

My thoughts are interrupted by the familiar sound of Potter harrumphing. We're sitting side by side in the Auror briefing room: a cramped, windowless cabin on level two of the Ministry. And, as it always does, my gaze flits to his hands. His middle finger twitches as he reads the parchment. Which is a worry. It's the first hint I have that the details of our mission are unsettling him. 

_Yes_ , alas and alack, even the mere quiver of Potter's fingers draws my attention. His hands distracted me in Potions class (though his chopping skills were atrocious), they distracted me during dinners in the Great Hall (carelessly waving his silverware around while he talked animatedly with his Gryffindors), they distracted me in the Auror training dojo (Salazar, the way he wields a wand…), and they still distract me to this day. I learnt very quickly what those tics, those little tells meant. What it means when he taps the pads of his fingers against his thumb in rhythmic succession, or when he curls them into a tight fist—knuckles popping when he clenches too hard—or when he circles the pad of his little finger over his lower lip, and it’s always struck me as fitting. Potter wears his heart not on his sleeve, but on his hands.

I watch as his fingers stiffen, then curl toward his palm, causing the lace of blue veins on the back of his hand to undulate. It's no surprise. He always gets emotionally invested. Hides it well, would _never_ admit it, but like I said, I know his tells. I wait for him to look at me, to say something. But he doesn’t. Instead he grabs the tracking bracelet from the envelope and snaps it onto his wrist intently, resolutely. I know then that he’s all in. 

A few minutes later, we’re outside and I watch Potter’s hands again as he taps the last cigarette out of the pack and lights it with his wand. No twitching fingers now—they're relaxed and comfortable, sure in their actions. I take a good, long look at his fingers, the roughly bitten cuticles, the delicate, protective way they curve around the cigarette as he closes his eyes and takes a deep, deep drag. My face feels hot. Perhaps I’m coming down with a fever.

It'll come as no surprise to you when I say that Potter's a wizard of phenomenal talent—the source of much envy on my part, though that gave way to more complicated feelings as time drew on—but what fewer people know is that he's also volatile and bull-headed. Put it this way, Potter's hand on a wand is a dangerous thing. And yet, at times, there's a gentle measuredness—like the way he held out his hand to the captive victims of the child labour ring we hit last month, soft and protective, guiding them to safety, how delicately he handled the children's meagre possessions, carefully boxing up clothes and toys. Or the easy waltz of his wand hand as he wards and protects the places we’ve stayed, so thoroughly and without the faintest magical trace that we’ve been there. Or the canny dexterity of his fingers as he checks the Muggle telephones in places we stay for bugging charms. Or the way he slides fragile vials into the utility straps on his uniform, silent and meticulous, before pulling the buckle snug against his ribs. 

Merlin's mercy, this train of thought is not helping the feverish feeling.

By now, Potter's hands have saved my life so many times, in so many ways, I couldn't begin to untangle them all. I'll never forget the first time though, desperately clinging to his sweaty, sticky palm as he hauled me onto his broom, flames licking at my ankles. I shudder, cold all of a sudden.

As he stubs out his cigarette, a last wisp of smoke curling from under his boot, he looks across at me, and the half-smile he offers floods me with a sure, warm sensation. I realise that it’s trust. I trust him, and every day I put my life into those hands of his. 

Just as he puts his life in mine. You can break it down whichever way you like, but in the end, we live or we die together. It's as stunningly simple as that.

The following evening we attend an opulent event at some pureblood pile. Ostensibly it’s a charity gala. In reality it's a cover for a crime fundraiser—Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Bewildered Bicorns, my arse. We charm Pureblood witches wearing pearls, long black gloves and Puffskein-fur shrugs, and turn quite a few of the wizard’s heads too, while the Aurors break into the private rooms upstairs. 

Later, Potter and I meet to examine the documents the Aurors filched. They detail the headquarters of our mark: an art museum in central Florence (I wistfully recall visiting there as a child). The target is a Dark Wizard, a nasty piece of work, and his current criminal venture involves the trafficking of male and female Veelas as sex slaves. Our intel says he's using a very illegal potion to weaken and subjugate them, one that could cause irreversible psychological damage in the long term. My stomach turns. It’s despicable. I suppose I’m not as unaffected by our missions as I thought.

Potter's hands spread wide over the parchment, smoothing out the edges, and again I stare. They’re large but not unduly so, and they’re capable, with strong, deft fingers and workmanlike knuckles. I hold down the corner of the parchment nearest me; my own hand seems slight and remarkably breakable in comparison. Fine-boned, Mother always said.

A thought slips into my mind, stray and casual: my hand, holding Potter's. Our fingers interlacing, palms pressed together. It's a pleasant thought, uncomplicated, like a smooth round pebble that I want to pocket.

I think about how Potter changed after the war. He took a break of course, disappeared for a good year and a half. I heard from Patil (who I partnered with last rotation) that he went to the dragon sanctuary in Romania, though he never speaks of it. It would certainly explain the silvery burn-scar that licks across his neck just below the ear. Wherever he was, he bulked up to a demented degree—not that I’m complaining. When he returned, he applied to the Aurors, sailing through his training in about half the time it took the rest of us. He was assigned to the Hit Wizard elite division about a year after me, and by then he was almost unrecognisable from the boy I bullied at school. 

He’s sullen and brooding almost all the time, a constant determined set to his face—but not in a virtuous way like at Hogwarts, much more grim—though it does light up when he talks about his godchildren, except that’s not often (just that one time really, when we bumped into the Weasley matriarch before a raid in Diagon Alley), and I can still provoke the unleashing of his trademark smart mouth now and then. 

Just. There’s a melancholy about him now, like he’s in life’s waiting room. Waiting for what, I don’t know. 

I’d like to know.

Despite both our prickliness, we're a frighteningly good team. Trust is critical and of fundamental importance. And I do. We do. We trust each other. Unswervingly. _We live or we die together_. 

Potter’s word is as cast-iron as dragonhide. It wasn't long before I learned that when the man makes a promise, he keeps it. Come hell or high water. He'd sooner Crucio himself than break his word. I suppose it's admirable. 

And while that whole ‘trust’ thing itself took some getting used to, what I’m really struggling with—and am beginning to wonder if I’ll ever get used to—is Potter's unremitting _presence_. Every mission we carry out together makes it worse, rather than better. I'm hyper-aware of our exact proximity at all times. Knees knocking against mine during briefing. Warm breath on the back of my neck when we’re stalking a mark. An arm pressed up against me right this very minute. It’s almost as if he’s compelled to breach my personal space. It makes me wonder. Do I make him feel safe? But I brush off the thought. It’s impossible. He’s so powerful and… so big. Okay, strictly speaking, I’m a good two inches taller than him; but I’m slender and Potter’s whole body is broad and muscled. I’ve never been intimidated by brawn, but when I work alongside Potter, perplexingly, it feels like _I’m_ the one being dwarfed. 

I let my mind wander and imagine Potter fucking one of his conquests. Large and looming in the bed, hands possessive, rhythmically pulling a faceless somebody in by the hips, rough, thick fingers leaving bruises on their skin. For a desperate split-second I picture myself as that somebody, with Potter's fingers gripping me, and I have to stifle an expletive. Potter tuts and grumbles in faux-irritation. He’s talking strategy. I should be concentrating.

This is the problem. My focus is always drawn back to his hands, like a compass to true North. They’re scarred and worn, nails bitten to the quick, a visual representation of the struggles he's been through and the strength it took to brave them. Pale pink letters mar the tawny skin on the back of his left hand; an eternal reminder to him to remain true, and a reminder to me of that sickening year I was under Umbridge’s thrall. 

Everyday gestures take on subtexts in my unruly mind. Potter adjusts his grip on his wand; I get a weird, fluttery feeling in my stomach. Potter fiddles with a quill; I have to look away. Potter ruffles the hair of a kid asking for his autograph; I bloom with shame for being jealous of a child. 

And how could I forget the time we were trapped underneath broken wood and fallen rubble—carnage resulting from a particularly ugly wandfight—and Potter actually took my hand. _Well_. Suffice to say I've committed the feel of his strong grip and coarse fingertips to memory. Of course, I ribbed him about his rough hands, reminding him lotion existed _for a reason_. It backfired on me though. Quite spectacularly. At our debrief session the next day he produced a tube of shea butter hand cream he'd acquired from The Body Shop, and I had to endure him shamelessly massaging it all over his hands and wrists. The sight of his fingers and thumbs working the cream in circular motions into his palms, and the backs of his hands, and up and down and between each finger, had me breathing fast and swallowing hard, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't wanked numerous times to nothing but the thought of Potter's lotioned-up hands and fingers taking me apart piece by piece.

In my hotel room in Florence, I again consider those fingers on me. Curled around me. In me. The image has me twisting and rearing and I come far too quickly. The man beneath me is surprised. I so hate to disappoint a lover—Guillermo, I think this one said his name was. I suck his cock extra enthusiastically to make it up to him.

Potter glowers all through breakfast the following morning. And it dawns on me that our hotel rooms must be next to each other. I meet his scowl with a cloying smile, despite the discreet pummelling of my heart against my ribcage. But it’s absurd to feel guilt for it. Potter hardly expects me to be celibate, just as he’d get no censure from me for satisfying his own physiological needs. One cannot function optimally if one’s basic needs are not met. If anything, I should feel guilty for letting my mind wander along the tangent that triggered such an embarrassingly accelerated release last night.

But it’s no use. And I find myself daydreaming again, watching Potter dig into his _bombolone_ with his usual lack of manners, thick fingers leaving mini-craters in the dough, tongue darting out to lick _crema_ and sugar off his knuckles in a swift, no-nonsense manner. I'm rather enjoying the show, and as I sip my caffe latte, I let myself envision my own tongue mapping the grooves of those knuckles. A slow smile creeps onto my face, and Potter stops chewing and asks me, around a mouthful of fried dough and crème pât, what I'm smirking about. I'm tempted to answer in graphic detail. Instead, I just intensify my smirk, dab my mouth with my napkin, and excuse myself to my room. I feel his eyes boring into my back as I nod to the wait staff on my way out.

And it thrills me.

And so, herein lies my quandary. Rather than our constant proximity desensitising me to my desperate fixation, it's overstimulating me to the point where caution has all but fled. I’m becoming less and less concerned with the fallout, the potential imbroglio my predilection for Potter’s hands could cause. It feels like I’m at a dangerous precipice. 

And it strikes me: I've already decided I'm going to jump. 

I need those hands _on me_. Salazar, the context thereof doesn't even matter. Of course, the simplest way would be to provoke him into a fight. I’ve never had any problem riling him up, believe me, I know just what buttons to push. It'd be so easy. A few well-placed barbs, just the wrong side of cutting, and we'd be wrestling like a pair of graphorns. 

The vexing thing is I find myself being _nice_ instead. We're standing on adjacent balconies the next morning admiring the sunrise. At least, _I'm_ admiring it. Potter could be wishing he could Nox it out, for all I know. On an absolute whim, and in a fit of what has to be temporary insanity, and certainly utter folly, I lean over the balcony and call out a good morning. Potter casts suspicious eyes in my direction.

“I've made a pot of coffee,” I say. “I'll never drink it all.” And I beckon him over with a chummy jerk of the head. I honestly wonder what's got into me.

Potter, without an answering smile, without a word, turns and goes inside, and I wonder if I've enraged him. Disgusted him, even. But not a moment later, there's a rap at my door. 

And then we’re leaning over the balcony, just a comfortable inch of air between us, drinking coffee and eating apricot-filled _cornetti_ in silence, save for the sounds of the city waking up. We watch the sun climb the sky, goldenrod and glarey, morphing the inky silhouette of the Duomo slowly into a half-sphere of ochres and burnt oranges, illuminating the myriad rust-coloured rooftops one by one, as if by the brush of some divine watercolourist. It’s a peculiar feeling, just standing here side by side, not saying a word. There’s a weightiness to the air—like right before an electrical storm—wrapping around us, smothering us with potential, with unspoken possibilities. We could strike up a normal conversation. Things could turn sour and we could end up hexing each other. Potter could just finish his coffee and leave without either of us saying a word. Anything could happen.

But minutes draw on and nothing happens. And, Merlin, the claustrophobic silence is beginning to agitate me. So I act. Nothing scandalous, nothing overt. I simply place my palm on the back of Potter's shoulder very gently.

And he leans into it. His whole weight. And sighs.

A moment later—as my brain is scrabbling to parse out what’s happening—Potter jolts and wheels. He looks thunderstruck, and the next second he’s striding off out of the hotel room. 

Well, well, I think. Clearly that was _some kind_ of provocation. Perhaps I'll get that fight after all.

He doesn’t re-emerge onto his own balcony. In fact, I don’t see or hear from him until the evening has begun to wax. He knocks again and grunts something about getting food in the hotel bar, a blush of what appears to be discomfiture high on the apples of his cheeks. Over a plate of taglioni with artichokes and parmesan, he talks through the tactics one last time, monotone and without eye contact. It’s entirely unnecessary—I’ve had the whole day to go over the plan—but I nod along mutely and eat my veal cutlet.

Then we’re at the museum, and it’s business as usual, Potter and I firing curses at henchmen from behind marble columns; snarls, mortar and spellsmoke curdling the air. Eventually, we back the goons into one of the side galleries, and the fight drags on for a while before they're finally subdued. I look around at the destruction, lamenting the hex damage to so many precious artefacts and artworks. Potter's always had a touch of the ‘blast-ended skrewt in a china shop’ about him, but he seems sloppy tonight, his aim not as precise as usual.

Despite that, he does an impressive job of collaring the bastard Dark Wizard-in-chief, with his usual 1-2-3 of Expelliarmus, Stupefy and Incarcerous. Meanwhile, I Apparate the Veela captives one by one out of the building and into the custody of the Auror hideout several blocks away, and they set to work dosing them with the antidote to the subservience potion. When one of the victims, dark-haired and devastating, pumps my hand vigorously in thanks, and his Veela pull grabs me in the solar plexus, I stand firm, and with the help of a smidge of Occlumency, douse the flare of lust before it overwhelms me. Past me would have jumped all over the opportunity, but I've made my decision now, and I want to see it through. I just need to decide how. 

When I’m done with the last one, I Apparate back into the building to locate Potter. I dash from chamber to chamber, slowing here and there to cast a few powerful mending spells at some of the damaged sculptures and artefacts along the way. I find him in a tucked-away storeroom off the stairwell, leaning against a cupboard, eyes squeezed shut and breathing heavily, looking like it will take a sight more than a Reparo to fix him. 

I sag against the wall and sigh, “Another job well done.” I pause before adding, "You seemed a little off this evening.”

He casts surly eyes on me and says nothing for several beats. Then he speaks, voice low, “I think we should switch partners.”

My stomach drops. 

“Right,” I say. I’m a professional. This is not a problem. 

Except it is. It stings like billy-o.

“Right,” he agrees, exhaling. 

Well, I suppose that’s that then. 

Or is it? I decide to prod at it. “I'm just… curious as to why. Things have been going rather… _well_ , I thought.”

Potter’s eyes darken. 

“I'll miss you terribly,” I go on, biting back a smirk. I'm goading him and I know it, but now it’s like a scab that I can’t leave alone, and I may… I _may_ have a vague theory. “We've built up quite the rapport, don’t you think?”

His eyes flash as they catch mine. Bingo. My theory could be right.

And suddenly Potter's advancing on me. “It's your fault,” he growls, voice low. “You… you’re so bloody… I just—”

“And what have I done?” I ask, the very picture of impeccancy. 

And then he’s crowding me against the wall, eyes blazing with green fury. But there’s a flare of something else, maybe something carnal, I can't be sure. 

“Potter?” I question, softly, and the name is a caress on my tongue.

Potter leans in close. His right hand lands, soft, on my chin. 

A hand on me. _At last._ My eyes fall shut against my will. A thrill of triumphant pleasure zips through me.

“Is this alright, Malfoy?” 

I open my eyes and the intensity of his gaze is almost painful. 

It’s more than alright, but I can barely speak. And strictly, one hand is only half of what I've been craving. I need both, and I'm _this_ close, and I’m fumbling for the right words to say to ensure that the tiny uncertain creature that is this moment doesn’t take fright and scuttle away. But then Potter’s lifting his other hand to palm my face. 

“How about this? Better?” His voice is low. All the anger is gone from his countenance.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “How did you know?”

“You’re nowhere near as subtle as you think,” he says. 

My face heats up, but with arousal more than embarrassment. I can’t bring myself to give a shit that Potter’s noticed me staring, especially not when the objects of my obsession are pressing against my skin. I’m half-hard already.

“Keep touching me,” I beg. “Please.”

Potter’s hands—warm, sturdy, sure—glide down my neck, thumbs caressing my Adam’s apple, and I whimper as my skin erupts in both hot and cold prickles. Then they’re deftly unclasping my robes, popping my shirt buttons and pushing the fabric to the sides. Potter splays his fingers across my bare chest, and it’s everything I’d hoped for. My skin feels over-sensitive, and I swear that every hair on my body has risen. 

Potter berates himself with a whispered expletive. _The scars_ , I realise with a lurch. 

“It's nothing,” I whisper, smiling as reassuringly as I know how. And I mean it. 

His forlorn expression softens. He looks deep into my eyes, and I match his gaze, drunk on the luscious greenness within. I think I could stay just like this, with Potter’s hands on my chest, and his eyes burning into me, for a long, long time. Right now, at this moment, I genuinely don't need anything more.

Which is why the urgency with which he suddenly kisses me hits me like a Bombarda Maxima. I moan into his mouth as a wave of unrestrained exhilaration surges downwards through my body. My body, which I'm right now pressing rather insistently against his as I _inhale_ —the earthy hot scent of _man_ , of _Potter_. Sweat and spicy aftershave and wandsmoke and tobacco. My fingers scrabble their way up Potter's sleeves to his collar, behind his neck, and up to twist in his thick, black hair. 

Potter’s tongue is greedy and grasping, and when he growls low and deep I lose all threads of sanity and reason. All I’m aware of is his muscled weight against me, strong and taut, and the rough clutch of his hands that have now fallen to my hips. Along with the press of his buckles and holsters, I can feel how hard Potter is against the crease of my groin, and when he rolls his hips, my breathing stops completely, and I’m not entirely certain it’s going to resume.

Then Potter freezes. And I hear footsteps beyond the wall. 

“Malfoy,” he grits out, a hard puff into my mouth.

“Yeah?” I mumble, already pushing free of him, with bloody great reluctance.

“Fucking _hide_.”

A couple of rapid Disillusionment Charms and then we’re flat against the wall behind the door, barely daring to breathe, wands at the ready. The door creaks open and wandlight illuminates the cabinets along the back wall.

But the light sweeps from side to side and within moments is gone. The footsteps retreat. I let out a breath. Bloody moron didn’t cast Homenum Revelio. We were lucky. Reckless and lucky. And fool that I am, I can't find it in myself to regret a second of it.

I watch Potter as he listens intently, brow furrowed, statue-still. I clear my throat. “We should go.”

He doesn’t look at me, just nods once. Then he raises his wand, while his other hand grabs my elbow securely, bleeding heat through the fabric of my robes, and I’m pirouetted into darkness.

We emerge in an alleyway a block from our hotel. He lets go of me and I shiver. My shirt is still open and flapping in the breeze. Potter looks in the opposite direction, stoic. Frustrated, I quickly do up my buttons, and adjust myself in my trousers. Then, with practised informality, we stroll out to the street, side-by-side, like we’re just a couple of tourists looking for a _ristorante_ for the evening. 

Potter still doesn't look my way. And it nettles me—is he really going to pretend that our whole dynamic hasn’t just altered irreversibly? That all our atoms haven’t been completely disconnected from each other and rearranged into some tangled indescribable shape? 

Unless they haven’t, not for him. Perhaps this is a commonplace occurrence for The Chosen One. Perhaps he snogs everyone he’s partnered with. Perhaps Potter doesn’t feel a thing.

And perhaps I'm the Minister for bloody Magic. 

What’s more likely is that this is an attempt to exasperate me by being deliberately taciturn, fucking well kissing me ferociously one minute, then acting standoffish the next, the contrary wanker, and I'm far too wound up to put up with such manoeuvres. _I’m_ the manipulator here. I walk a little closer, pivoting my arm toward Potter's, and the backs of our hands brush together briefly.

Potter startles with a burr and casts a glance at me, and I give him my most angelic smile. Then he growls and snatches his hand away, making a tight fist. As he stares obstinately in the other direction, I try very, very hard not to laugh.

We arrive at the hotel and the ride in the lift is both unbearable and unending. I begin wishing I’d just climbed the stairs; it would have taken my mind off Potter’s stuffy, tense bearing. Eventually, a sultry female voice announces _‘sesto piano’_ and the lift doors ping open. We walk a few steps and I turn towards the door of my hotel room.

Potter catches my wrist. “Where are you going?”

I'm all innocence. “Why, my room, of course.”

His fingers twitch. A tell. 

“Come to my room,” he blurts. “For a nightcap,” he adds, a bit more evenly, though the implication is clear. His fingers are still pressing into my wrist, nails no doubt leaving little crescent marks, sweaty palm sticking to my bare skin, and I’m sure he must have felt my pulse speed up just now.

When the door closes behind him, he stands there, stolid and unmoving. I shrug out of my outer robes and levitate them to the back of a chair. 

I gesture to the minibar. “You were going to fix us a drink? Merlin knows it might help you to relax a—”

My words dry up. Potter's eyes are on me, darker than I’ve ever seen them. 

He takes a step towards me. Then another. I take the final step myself and grasp his hips. He takes my face in both hands, and we stare at each other for an intense, agonising moment. Then we're kissing again, and this time I give as good as I get, tyrannising Potter's mouth with nips and bites and tongue-twirls and long licks. Potter groans into my mouth. He pushes his fingers into my hair and drags his fingers over my scalp, and I want to whoop with happiness, but instead I make a wild, low noise, the feel of his fingers on me making my head spin.

Potter pulls back from the kiss, looking at me with an unfathomable expression. I'm spaced out enough that when his hand trails from my head, down my cheek, and over my mouth, I just… open right up. I've got my lips closed around two of Potter's fingers down to the second knuckle before I realise there's anything odd about it.

Self-consciousness prickles up my neck—well, I've never sucked a man's fingers before, never wanted to... not before Potter—and I brace myself to pull away and laugh it off, apologise, but Potter makes a small, curious noise, and when he draws his fingers out before slowly pushing them back in, a little further than before, I think I'm going to die. Which is a feeling I'm rather familiar with, but never has the threat of imminent death been quite as delicious as this.

Crimson heat spreads down my neck, even as relief washes over me, knowing Potter's okay with this—into it, even. That he doesn't think this is perverse. The anxiety fades, leaving a vacuum that arousal rushes in to fill. I make a thin, wanting noise around his fingers.

“Oh,” he says, wide-eyed, transfixed by his fingers between my lips. 

He pulls them out again, examining their wetness. There’s wonder in his eyes, and I’m sure I haven’t seen his face as open as this in a very long time. 

“You know...” I take in a long, threading breath, “perhaps the bed might be... an idea.”

“Couch is closer,” he says, and he’s already walking me over to it, beginning to unbutton my shirt all over again, and I stumble backwards, luckily ending up on the sofa. He grumbles and flicks his wand and my clothes vanish. 

I must make a concerned noise, because then he’s sighing and rolling his eyes and flicking his wrist again. The wardrobe doors swing open, and there are my clothes, neatly hanging. I’m momentarily disarmed by the domesticity of my shirt and trousers on hangers in his wardrobe, socks and pants likely folded and in the drawer below. I’m definitely going soft. And I definitely need Potter to teach me that spell. 

But suddenly, I’m very aware that I’m sprawled out, tremendously naked, my cock on display, swollen and eager, with a fully-clothed Potter settling over me on his knees. And that won't do, so I reach up to his buttons, but he bats my hand away. When I try to protest, Potter simply places his thumb on my bottom lip, and my words fizzle away. He applies pressure until my mouth falls open, pliant and willing to follow his every instruction. 

There’s something so... dominant about it. And that’s not usually my cup of tea. I'd pictured myself as the controlling force in all my sordid fantasies. How typical that The Chosen Hands could prise submission out of me. Merlin, I’m so fucking gone. I clench my hands reflexively, whole body pulsing with want.

He eases his fingers back into my mouth, and I suck them in obediently. They taste sweet and metallic. There’s something so marvellously intrusive about having part of him inside me. I wonder how far he can push them in, how much I can take before I gag. My cock throbs.

With his free hand, Potter pushes my hair away from my forehead and then tangles his fingers in my hair, gripping tight.

Then he twists his hand and caresses the soft flesh at the back of my throat with the rough pads of his fingers. Again I think, _how did he know?_ I swallow around him and he presses harder. My eyes water and I choke, but Potter is grinding into me and pushing a desperate kiss into my neck, so I ride it out—I’m an old hand at sucking dick, after all—my tongue forcing his fingers apart, sucking at the empty space between, and he moans low against my skin, as his fingers are assaulted. 

My name falls from his lips, though he appears to be trying to bite it back, and my heart stops. It's the first time Potter has ever used my first name. When I drag my teeth lightly along his fingers, Potter whimpers “Draco” again.

“ _Potter_ ,” I purr around his fingers and then pull off. “You called me Draco. It’s—” Ugh. I can’t say _nice_. I feel my face heat up at the very idea. “I like it,” I say, as if _that’s_ any better.

“Fed up of ‘Malfoy’, then?” Potter’s grinning. “And hey, turnabout’s fair play. I'm a little tired of being ‘Potter’ all the time.”

“Your name is... weird,” I say, “... _intimidating_ ,” and fuck, I didn’t mean to say that, but then Potter is bending to kiss my neck again, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from groaning embarrassingly loud. If I’d known how helpless I'd be against his kisses, I'd never have started this. It's pathetic and downright embarrassing. And yet, there's the unmistakable ridge of Potter's erection through his trousers, moving against my body, seeking stimulation. His breaths are coming fast and short. Perhaps I’m not the only one feeling helpless.

“More,” I say, my voice wrecked. I grab Potter’s wrist, round my lips around his knuckles, taking them deep, and suck. He gasps, draws his fingers out and pushes them back in, sliding them along my tongue, and it’s exquisite. Then he’s pulling and pushing and pulling and pushing until it's impossible for it to be _anything_ other than him fucking my mouth with his fingers. The thought sends a jolt of heat to my core, and my hips buck up, desperately seeking friction.

If someone told me a week ago that I could come from sucking a bloke’s fingers, I’d have scoffed at the idea and advised them precisely where they could fuck off to, offering them a finger of my own for good measure—the middle one, to be exact. Now, though? Now I’m quite sure that if Harry’s scandalous fingers keep up these ministrations for another minute, I’ll be swiftly shooting spunk all over my stomach.

My teeth tease at the edge of Potter’s fingertips as he pulls almost completely out and then plunges back in again. I circle my tongue around the thrusting digits, drooling and panting hard, and my fingers dig roughly into Potter’s waist. 

Potter moans approvingly, but then pulls his fingers out—too soon, the teasing bastard, I’m so close—and in a horrifyingly tender gesture, he swipes away the saliva from my chin with his thumb. Then he’s kissing my throat softly and settling back on his knees. I watch as his hand moves, as though in slow motion, down, down, and between my thighs. My pulse thunders in my ears when I realise where he’s going. He pushes my legs up and wandlessly conjures some lube. I need the touch there _now_ , I’m greedy for it. Anticipation dances sweet and exciting at the edge of my nerves, and I remember the other night, how I’d imagined this very scenario, how it had sent me careering over the edge almost instantaneously. That _can’t_ happen now. I can't let it. Pride, dignity, and self-respect are at stake.

Regardless, when Potter’s fingers begin drawing teasing patterns around my hole, I arch on the sofa and bite back a sob. Even with the lube, the roughened callouses of his fingertips create mind-melting friction, and I’m struggling for breath with the pleasure of it.

Then he slides a slicked finger into me, and it’s honestly no exaggeration to say that it’s a dream fulfilled, in vivid, glorious, saturated colour, and I'm stripped bare, weak and defenceless. When the fallout from this night comes, it may well be ruinous, but right now I'm here, being slowly sensuously speared by the finger of a hand that I’ve wanted for so very, very long, and _I don’t give a fuck._

“Look at you,” Potter murmurs, as he glides his finger out, then carefully presses back in with two. “There aren't words for how you look right now.”

He’s panting, his face is flushed, and the bulge in his trousers has grown significantly—gods, it’s impressive. And Salazar’s good grace, does he not realise _he’s_ the one that’s too magnificent for words?

“I want you to come like this,” Potter says, as if I couldn't figure that out from the absolutely ruthless press of his fingers inside me. He twists them and curves them, and I hiss soft syllables through my teeth. “I'm going to make you come on my fingers. I promise you.”

Animal lust rages through me, and to my shame, I whine, low and feral and savage. Potter _never_ breaks a promise.

“Is that okay… Draco?”

I only manage a garbled plea in response, pushing myself brutally against Potter’s fingers and the secure grip his left hand has on my thigh. 

And my mind is racing around, chasing its own tail, and I’m wondering if this is actually _real_? If Potter is actually urging me on with filthy little phrases, kissing down my stomach, fingers working me into a frenzy? It all seems too inconceivable to be true. He certainly can't be allowing me to run my fingers through his soft thick hair. It's all impossible, and so heady I'm drunk with it, as far gone as I ever remember being. 

Blearily, I look down and he's gazing up at me through heavy lashes, looking like he’s been hit by both a Confundus and a strong dose of Amortentia. And I realise: Potter is just as gone as me.

"Harry," I murmur, surprised at his name passing my lips.

Potter whispers against the hair on my lower stomach, "Draco," and it’s nice actually. Saying each other’s names. I feel like it’s something momentous, but I barely get time to dwell on it—his fingers are still moving in me, and I’m tensing up so badly I’m shaking, mouth falling open as I barrel towards orgasm, and it’s so overwhelming that I’m not sure I'll come out intact. Not sure either of us will. In this moment, we live or we die together.

Seconds before I come, Potter moves his free hand from my hip and pushes three fingers into my mouth. I suck at them hungrily. A filthy thought has my mind in flames—I’m being fucking well spitroasted by the hands of The Saviour of the Wizarding World, hands that killed Voldemort, and now they’re doing me in too. I breathe out an awestruck “ _Harry_ ” around a mouthful of his strong, capable fingers as my untouched cock pulses between us. 

I gulp giant bruising breaths and clutch the arm of the sofa as I wait for the room to stop spinning around me.

Potter keeps languidly finger-fucking my arse for a while, well into overstimulation territory, but I can’t bring myself to ask him to stop. I may never have this again, so although thoroughly slaked, I savour every stinging press and drag, letting out the occasional pained whimper into the cushion at my head.

After a minute, Potter pulls his fingers out. “You alright?” he asks softly. The smile on his face is almost fond.

I nod, stretching out languorously. “More than.” I take in his debauched appearance and add, “Let me suck you off. I’m very good at it.”

“This was, er, more enjoyable for me than you realise,” Potter says, low and quiet. I rake my eyes over him again and wonder how I missed the telltale damp patch on his trousers. 

After a moment's consideration, he adds casually, and with a deliberate nod, “In the morning, if you're still offering.” A bristle of fear flies through me and I have no idea why.

He wraps his fingers around my chin and tilts my head for a long and lingering kiss, and then as he pads across the room to retrieve his wand, I’m left dazed and spent and touching my mouth. 

It hits me then that it wasn’t fear that spiked through me. It was the rush of hope. I’d expected this to be the end of it. I hadn't considered what exactly I wanted from Potter after I satisfied my longstanding desires, and fuck, I realise I really, really don’t want this to be the end of it.

I’m a fool.

With a crisp wand-swish, he cleans us up, and then I take one of his hands in mine and slowly rub my thumb over the knuckles. "Your hands are terrific," I say, and I cringe straight away. Such a crude and inadequate understatement, given the depth of my captivation with them, but it's all I can summon up right now. In response, Potter laces his fingers into mine. Holding hands with him feels exactly as I expected. Perfect. Merlin, I’m feeling gooey.

He’s brought a fluffy robe over too, and he lies next to me on the sofa, wraps the robe around me and pulls me close. I hadn't pegged Potter for a cuddler, but he’s surprising me a great deal today. I could get used to this; his warm weight blanketed around me, cocooning each other in safety, nuzzling and humming and trailing lazy fingers along each other’s arms.

Gradually, though, reality asserts itself, and we disentangle and begin to get ourselves in order. I need to get back to my own room; if I stay any longer the tracking bracelet will rat us out. Or at least raise suspicion. I go to the wardrobe to gather my clothes, and he follows me, cheeks flushed and a rare grin on his face. He looks so young and proud right now, like he's just prevailed against the Horntail in the Triwizard Tournament, and my heart aches. 

“Heading back to your room so soon?”

I force a rueful smile and stroke my thumb along his jawline. Then I bring his face to mine and we kiss, achingly soft and sweet, for a long moment.

I turn away and slip my arms through the sleeves of my shirt. “You’ll be transferring to a new partner shortly,” I say, with a cold chuckle. “No point getting used to this.”

“What are you on about?” he says, and his baffled expression looks quite genuine, I’ll give him that.

“You can’t expect me to believe you’ve forgotten about it?” I say icily, as I fasten my buttons with trembling fingers. “I assure you, it’s perfectly fresh in my memory.”

Potter scowls at me, eyes hard. “I’m requesting a new partner so I _can_ get used to this. You know very well we’ve breached several regulations tonight. So...” 

“So…” I consider a smart answer and decide against it. “So, you’re saying…”

“So, _Draco Malfoy_ ,”—and my eyes track his fingers as they rake through the still-dishevelled mop he calls hair; fingers that’d been in me, intimately; hair that I’d tugged on mercilessly and anchored myself to in near delirium—“I’m _saying_ that you’re an oblivious arse, and I’m saying you drive me crazy with want, and I’m saying I’ve spent months trying to figure out whether you wanted me too.” He huffs a noisy breath. Out then in. “And I… I think that maybe you do.” Another huff. “Want me. And I’m _saying,_ you prick, that if the only way I can have a chance at _something_ with you is by partnering with someone else, then, well, it’s a no-brainer for me.”

My head buzzes and a sick-hot feeling swoops low in my stomach. A preposterous thought enters my mind. It couldn't possibly be that the thing Potter’s been waiting for was... was _me_?

“You know it’ll never work,” I say, and I’m internally screaming at myself. Why do I have this idiotic knee-jerk instinct to sabotage things? “We’ll be away a lot.”

“I’ll make it work,” Potter says firmly, that familiar determined set to his jaw. As it always does, my gaze flits to his hands. One is curled into a loose fist, no white knuckles, no tension. The other hangs, relaxed, by his side. 

And then I’m pressing him against the wardrobe door, linking our fingers together and pinning his arms above his head. And kissing him. Helplessly kissing him; deep, desperate, hungry, messy, because I _know_ , in this moment, that Potter’s not being mulish or contrary or bull-headed.

No.

He’s making a promise. 

  
  



End file.
